Flight of War
by Crom Cruaich
Summary: A soldier runs from a fight. War is on his heels. 'Because she was War, and carnage followed in her footsteps.' Short piece based on an original story of mine which I'm working on. Death and mental ramblings. Just read.


Running

It was all he could do to keep himself thinking clearly. Just keep running. The words whirled around in his head, keeping him moving. It was his mantra, his mantra, his fuel, to keep him alive.

Keep running

He had lost his sword a while back. It was too heavy to log around with him, and if he survived this, if he came out of this alive, he would be able to find a new sword. He still had a dagger, but what could it do, what could he do? Fighting was useless now. Useless.

Blood

Droplets flew off him in the wind of his passing. It dripped from the gashes on his arms, chest and back. Blood everywhere. He choked down a sob as memories flashed before his eyes. Blood everywhere, all dead. All dead. Arms ripped off, heads cleaved, bellies slashed open, intestines spilling out. It wasn't pretty, no, not pretty at all. His comrades, his friends. All were dead, dead as doornails. Even deader. His brain paused on that for a moment before whirling on, and on, and on.

Branch

He was zigzagging through the trees now. The plains were behind him, the camp was behind him. Death was behind him. He had heard her cackling laughter as she had cleaved through his friends. It had been only four warriors. Only four. Them. They were it, and nobody had managed to get away. Except for him, only he. Branches whipped in his face, the leaves were crunching under his feet. They hurt, the whipping branches were painful, but nothing could make him stop running. He had looked Death in the eyes, and he ran away. A whirring sound made him swerve off his course.

Tack

It was the sound of a throwing knife embedding itself in wood. His breath quickened, his heart hammered in his chest. On his heels! They were on his heels! Praying couldn't work, wouldn't work, didn't work, they were demons, demons! They had fought and danced and killed and it all went so fast, so fast. Too fast, too fast. He had to run, he had to, he couldn't stop, wouldn't stop. It was dark under the trees, the shadows were crawling up to him, crawling around him. The were after his soul, his soul, he had to run, to get away, to warn his superiors. Another camp out, another camp massacred. By them, by them, the Four, the unstoppable, the inhuman Four.

Crack

A branch snapped somewhere on his right, and his head whipped to the side. It was close, too close. Eyes wide, he swerved off to the right, away from the sound. A cackling laugh came from nearby, making his hair stand on end. It was insane, insane! He didn't want to die, he didn't, didn't. He wanted to go home, and see his family, and hug his mother, and tell them all he loved them, so they would know, would know. Not die here, not here, not so senseless, so unknown, to be nothing but a small figure in a rapport in the achieves. No, he didn't want that. Not at all. Another knife stuck in a tree near him. Too close, too close…

Scream

The knife was embedded in his back, making it scream in pain with every movement. He stumbled into a tree, falling to the ground. A crunch made his head whip to the side. A shape even darker than the shadows stood between the trees on his left. Naked steel glittered coldly in the moonlight. His mouth opened in a silent scream as the shape stepped forward. Cold, cold eyes shone from the face. Blood red paint covered the face that was distinctly feminine. She chuckled softly, an insane sound. "Running away, are you? No, no, can't have that, can't have that at all." She laughed now, a chilling sound. Blood, so much blood, dripped from her blade on the ground. "Can't have survivors, you know? That would tarnish my reputation, I'm sure you understand. I will make it short, I will give you that. You gave me a good chase, haven't had a good one like that in a while. Stubborn little fellow aren't you?"

Insane, she was insane. His body was frozen against the tree, he could only watch as she stepped closer to him, hefting her sword in the air. The steel whistled through the air. Then all was black.

She turned away from the dead soldier. He had been stubborn, too stubborn to die, but in the end he did, like all did. No one can run from their fate after all. She threw one last look back at the headless corpse. Her knife was still embedded in his back. She would leave it there, as a testament to his will to survive, to his effort to get away. He had been good, yes, but not good enough. The wind whistled through the trees, carrying the scent of blood. She sniffed, grinning. Battle, glorious war. Then she was gone, more blood following in her wake.

Because she was War, and carnage followed in her footsteps.


End file.
